


Rhythm That I Know so Well

by orphan_account



Category: Deep Purple (Band), Music RPF, Rock Music RPF
Genre: 1980s, Almost Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Male Slash, Nothing too explicit, One Shot, RPF, Swearing, basically crack tbh, but not really, deep purple mk ii, gillmore, just fluff, just language really, lorcey, lord/paicey if you squint i guess, mk ii, vague timelines, warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24032014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Just a small scene on the Deep Purple tour bus.(Set sometime during the Deep Purple Mark II reunion tour in 1985.)
Relationships: Ritchie Blackmore/Ian Gillan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	Rhythm That I Know so Well

**Author's Note:**

> *Aside* Just a final warning for real person slash and general shippy-ness. This is total fiction. If you don't like either of those things, then you probably shouldn't read.  
> Thanks :)
> 
> Title is from Deep Purple - Bloodsucker:  
> "Got a long story that I wanna tell,  
> To a rhythm that I know so well"

It was only after about three hours of driving that Jon finally started to relax. It certainly wasn’t the case that he wasn’t tired-because by God, between the constant shows, girls, drinks, and travel, they were all practically dead on their feet-just that it was incredibly difficult to rest on the tour bus.

For once, the bus was oddly devoid of people (Jon had grown pleasantly accustomed to many more of the fairer sex joining them). There had been an impromptu venue change mid-tour, and so for this leg of the journey they were missing their normal entourage.

The band’s seating area was partitioned off from the driver’s cab and a front seating area that occupied the equipment and sometimes the odd roadie, groupie or even manager ( _God forbid_ ), so there was a certain degree of privacy and refuge for him and the lads.

A carpeted aisle (patterned in some grotesque combination of vibrant greens, yellows, and blues) stretched between the two sides; one a booth and table set, and the other a dreadfully uncomfortable couch that ran along the length of the bus. The band had temporarily fashioned the couch into smoothing akin to a bed, which for this stretch of the drive, was Roger’s turn to use.

That left Paicey, Jon, Ian, and Ritchie to occupy the booth. In accordance to the basics of self-preservation, Jon made sure to set himself in the inside seat next to Paicey. Predictably, Ritchie-who was also the last person on the bus-made Ian yield the other corner seat across from Jon to him.

The drive started with a harmless discussion of minor additions and alterations they could make to the set-list. After about 20 minutes, this resulted in some small disagreement between Ian and Ritchie that would come to fuel three hours of constant argument. Roger, Jon, and Paicey had all promptly exited the conversation at the first signs of trouble, but there was no escaping the feud when trapped in the same tour bus.

Paicey spent his time happily tapping away on legs, switching between using just his hands and reaching for the drumsticks he had stuffed away in the seat cushion between him and Jon. Roger was napping, and so aside from Paicey's drumming, the bus was comfortably quiet.

Jon almost sighed in relief, finally settling in to read an interesting magazine that he had picked up from their last hotel, and ready to relax into the peaceful environment. 

Jon paused. _Peaceful?_

That meant Ian and Ritchie had finally ceased their incessant bickering. Jon dropped his magazine, very curious as to why the pair were suddenly so _suspiciously_ quiet.

Across the booth from Jon and Paicey, Ritchie was asleep and draped on top of a very much, still-awake Ian. To anyone outside of the band, the scene would have been quite shocking; compromising if the prying eyes were sharp enough to pick apart the subtleties of where Ian’s hand rested at Ritchie’s waist and where Ritchie’s hands loosely clutched at Ian’s thighs.

However, Jon, Roger, and Paicey were all quite familiar with Ian and Ritchie’s _arrangement_ , and there was a silent agreement amongst the band not to mention it or prod at it lest the thing explode.

It had already existed to some extent in the 70s (Jon knows this first hand, having once unfortunately stumbled across what he innocently thought to be Ian and a raven-haired groupie getting it on backstage), before it had all come apart in increasingly bitter fights until there was nothing left to fight over.

But in this sort of rejuvenated honeymoon phase of the mark II reunion, Ian and Ritchie had rekindled whatever this _thing_ of theirs was, and in Jon’s personal opinion, they were engaging in this _thing_ more than they ever had over a decade earlier.

Jon, the worrier that he was, was already anxiously awaiting the blowout that would surely result from this relationship that was nothing short of volatile. He wasn’t sure that the band could recover from an Ian-Ritchie fallout a second time.

During Jon's introspection, Ian had noticed him, and was now watching him carefully, waiting to gauge his reaction.

Jon did his best to convey the warning of “ _if you two get into it again, God help us all_ ” through meaningful eye contact alone. When Ian returned a smug smirk, Jon couldn’t be sure if that meant the great fool had totally missed his message, or if he was just disregarding it.

Jon aimed a questioning glare, but startled when he heard a faint “ _fuckin’ bastard_ ” emanate from Ian’s shoulder. Jon’s eyebrows shot up. He leaned up and across the table, interest piqued.

“Is he talking in his sleep?” Jon asked, looking between the pair.

Paicey had stopped his lap drumming and was now also watching the scene unfold curiously.

Ian nodded, smiling indulgently down at the dozing guitarist.

“Yeah, sometimes Ritchie talks in his sleep,” With a free hand he delicately brushed some of Ritchie’s hair away from his face, revealing a furrowed brow and nasty scowl. “It’s adorable.”

Jon blinked.

“What’s adorable?” Roger slurred from where he was now half awake and reclined on the sofa-bed.

“Ritchie is.” Paicey spluttered.

“According to Gillan.” Jon corrected. However, internally he recognized that even though unconscious Ritchie still had a lot to say, unconscious Ritchie was still a vast improvement to conscious Ritchie.

(And when the scowl wasn’t aimed at you personally, it was possible to find something _slightly_ endearing in it.)

“Really? Our Ritchie? Ritchie Blackmore, that Ritchie?” Even half asleep, the disbelief was clear in Roger’s voice.

Ian screwed up his face childishly and stuck his tongue out at Roger, looking ready to argue his case, but then the sleeping Ritchie was off again.

“You….fuckin’ bitch…..fuck,” The sleeping man turned and grimaced, and for a second Jon worried that Ritchie would open his eyes and he would become the target of this verbal berating. But after a couple of seconds, Ritchie just pressed his face back into Ian’s arm. “How dare you…..hate you….you bitch….Ian…you absolute fuckin’ bastard, fuck.”

Across the aisle, Roger was now sitting upright and looking on the scene with concern. “He _is_ still asleep, right?”

Paicey had a similar expression, half hiding behind Jon. “Man, I sure hope so.” The drummer whispered back.

Jon, Paicey, and Roger all startled when Ritchie’s sleeping rant suddenly picked back up. Ian was still watching the dozing man with a lazy grin.

“Everyone…..is a bastard…..fucking….band…..mmmmmh…”

Ritchie’s half-formed sentences soon fell apart into quiet mumbles of indistinguishable syllables before he was once again silent. He shifted then, adjusting his arms to rest more comfortably across Ian and nestled his face into Ian’s neck like a cat eagerly seeking the warmest spot to nap. The guitarist even let out a contented sigh once he had settled into his final position.

Ian carefully wrapped an arm around the smaller man’s shoulders, rubbing soothing circles into Ritchie’s upper arm with his thumb.

Beside Jon, Paicey let out an almost inaudible ‘aw’. Roger, who had laid back down but was still awake, seemed to agree with Paicey’s sentiment, smiling up at the scene and simply happy that no one was strangling each other. 

Ian glanced around at his three bandmates, seemingly missing Jon's utterly shocked expression. His gaze dropped back to Ritchie, his smile was almost unbearably fond.

“He’s precious, isn’t he?”

Jon shook his head, still in a state of disbelief.

“He’d slaughter you if he ever heard you talking about him like that.” Was all that the organist managed to get out.

Ian shrugged. “I know.”

Roger hummed his agreement through a yawn, already almost asleep. “We’d probably never find your body.”

“He’d make sure we could never prove anything.” Jon continued, finally picking up his discarded magazine and settling himself back down into his seat.

“It’d be tragic.” Paicey chimed in, looking regretfully at Ian as if they had already lost him. He flicked his gaze over to Ritchie nervously.

Ian was still holding Ritchie, but a small frown had settled over his features.

He leaned down to where Ritchie’s face was pressed into his neck, and hovered over the other man’s ear. Ian’s warm puffs of breath made the wispy hair jump about, tickling him as he moved in even closer to whisper.

“You wouldn’t ever _actually_ murder me, would you, Blackers?”

There was a sudden and sharp jab at Ian’s rib cage.

“Hey!”

The singer startled enough to catch Jon and Paicey’s attention. Ian looked down just in time to see Ritchie retracting his hand back to where it had been peacefully folded across Ian’s waist.

“Depends, are you going to keep talking?” Ritchie’s sleep-heavy voice mumbled grumpily. The guitarist’s face was hidden behind a curtain of hair and Ian was fighting a laugh as he met Jon and Paicey’s eyes across the booth.

Ian murmured, still looking surprised and a little unsettled. “Hey, I’ll stop. You just go back to sleep, Blackers.” He looked back at his bandmates and winked. “You’re much nicer unconscious.”

Ritchie harrumphed and Ian didn’t have to see the guitarist’s face to know he was scowling.

“Maybe after your nap you’ll be less bitchy.” Ian tested, continuing to push his luck.

Now Jon was frowning at him, everything in his face a parental warning to “ _Stop whatever you’re doing right this minute_ ”.

But Ritchie just mumbled sleepily. “Mmmm…need my rest to tolerate your stupidity.”

Ian actually chuckled at the insult. He brushed his fingers through Ritchie’s hair, which to Jon and Paicey’s utter shock, the guitarist allowed. Upon closer inspection, Jon found that Ritchie even seemed to arch into the touch, as if he could in fact crave a human connection. 

Then in a matter of seconds Ritchie was again fast asleep.

Paicey returned to his idle drumming, pressed comfortably against Jon’s side, and Roger slept peacefully across from them. Jon watched Ian rest his head on top of Ritchie’s, finally closing his eyes in an attempt to catch a few winks himself.

Jon didn’t bother trying to fight the fond smile pulling at his lips. Instead he wrapped an arm around Paicey’s shoulders and took back up his magazine, already committing this leg of the tour to memory.

“We’re making it alright this time around, aren’t we, Jon?” Paicey mumbled beside him. Jon squeezed his arm.

“Yeah, I think we’re making it pretty alright after all.” 

**Author's Note:**

> This poor Jon is very optimistic. 
> 
> Thank you again, and stay safe!


End file.
